Ouroboros
by Antiquarianne
Summary: AU. At least one thing could be said of Philippe de Chagny's rather banal, bourgeois friend: Erik had an impeccable ear for talent.


_a/n: I suppose the best thing to classify this as is 'character study.' A sort of 'Erik's Life, if Erik had a Face' thing, with Philippe thrown in because I'm fond of him. Fair warning: No beta, and barely edited.  
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I.

It was not often that Philippe de Chagny suffered boredom, and it was rarer still to be so afflicted at the Garnier. He sat in the family box, flanked by his sisters and their spouses, stultified by Massenet's latest offering. He should have known—with a title like _La Vierge_, how could he be engaged?

In all fairness, it was not a bad score, or even a bad production. He had spotted Sorelli in the wedding scene, bedecked in a diaphanous, periwinkle thing. He was not entirely sure it was the sort of thing some Jewish maiden from the time of Christ would really wear—his appreciation for history tended towards the romantic, rather than the factual—but it was a fetching costume.

Philippe had half a mind to join the other subscribers backstage, as soon as the performance came to an end.

However there was a good chance that Philomene's husband might try to accompany him, which would be profoundly awkward. Martine might wink at a gentleman's flirtation, but Philomene took these things much too seriously. (She was, Philippe recalled, the one who had first suggested _La Vierge_ as a suitable way to pass the evening.)

It appeared that he was doomed.

The curtain fell and the audience seemed to heave a collective sigh of relief. Sanctified by the subject matter, they could now indulge in their more corporeal pursuits. It was sure to be a long evening for Philippe. His country-dwelling sisters were running into 'dearest old friend' after 'dearest old friend.' Philippe played his assigned role gamely, making sure that the proper forms and gallantries were observed. He eventually meandered into the salon, picking up a flute of champagne. He stood by the window for a moment, looking at the gilt and crystal of the salon's chandelier distorted in the window reflection. He downed the champagne and turned to hunt for a second glass.

Instead of a waiter, he was immediately confronted with a sudden vision of mortality in black and parchment. It made his forty years seem ancient for a mad moment, before his reasoning faculties caught up with his eyes. A tall, spindly man with an incongruous snub nose stood before him. Philippe grumbled at his own absurdity. "My God, man! Do you walk through walls?"

"No,' Erik Mauger reached over and knocked on the window frame right behind Philippe. "No, I don't believe that I do. How do you do, de Chagny?"

Philippe shrugged as if his current state was both static and of little consequence.

Erik replied with one of his incredulous quirked eyebrows. It was an infinitely useful gesture. Philippe might have been affected by it, if only he did not possess such a strong memory of Erik practicing it in a looking-glass. That had been well over twenty years ago, when they had both paid homage to La Sorbonne.

A little against his will, Philippe found himself beginning to smile. Erik was seldom at his most brilliant in a large crowd, but he was hardly _boring._

"I feel like I have just suffered some great loss," Philippe finally said, "which is rather dramatic when one considers that all I have suffered was a few hours of… devotional music."

"Sadly, that rather seems to sum up the general mood," Erik's tone became somewhat mercenary. "I told Massenet—I warned him just a few days ago. I said, 'Jules, three years ago you gave Paris _Le Roi de Lahore_, and it was stupendous. They will not forgive you if this is your next offering.' And he said—" Erik's voice took on the Occitan twang that still plagued Massenet after thirty-odd years in Paris—"he said, 'Erik, give the Parisian public some credit. We've just observed Lent. It is the perfect time to perform a _légende sacrée.'_ I had to say, 'What the hell is a scared legend, anyway? This is a damned oratorio. If you don't call it that, you're sure to doom the score sales. And Lent ended a month ago. Everyone is trying to forget it.'" Erik sighed and took a sip of his champagne. "Of course, he did not listen."

Philippe coughed to conceal a laugh. "It may not have been to my tastes, but I do not believe it to be such a _terrible _disappointment."

Erik's scraggly eyebrows lowered and he took a long moment to look around the salon. "I beg your pardon—of course; I would have expected the Paris fashion to have changed in the course of a year. How could I have mistaken this audience as anything other than a picture of enthusiasm and delight?"

"You know how fickle fashion can be," Philippe offered.

"Another reason I avoid it when possible," Erik said, "Did I see the entire de Chagny clan up in your box?"

"Near enough. Martine is just over there, looking predatory."

Erik turned and lifted his glass in silent greeting. Martine smiled from across the room and disengaged herself from her conversational partners.

"Erik!" she held out a hand to him, "I am _delighted._ How _lucky_ that we should both be in Paris at the same time! It is simply too rare of an occurrence. Don't you think?"

"Every day would still be 'too rare,' Madame," Erik said. They made banal chitchat for a few minutes—_yes, did you know—no, did you hear—what, can you believe._ Philippe grew wary of the gleam in his sister's eye, especially when she took Erik's arm.

"Erik. Tell Philippe that he ought to meet the Viscountess de Tourney's cousin. She is a lovely woman."

"Of course," Erik nodded and then continued in a decent imitation of Martine's coquetry, "Philippe, you ought to meet the Viscountess de Tourney's cousin. She is a lovely woman."

"And remind him that he really ought to get a wife," she added, "Philomene and I have agreed that neither of us want to keep house for him in his crotchety old age. Therefore he needs a wife and a handful of children to look after him."

This was familiar territory, and contemptible for all its familiarity. Philippe felt his expression chill slightly. "What, and cut Raoul out of his inheritance?"

"Just say it, Erik."

Erik smiled benignly. "I can hardly comment, though, being a bachelor myself."

Martine was not to be thwarted. "I had heard," she began with that saucy, slippery tone Philippe was quite sure was secretly taught to all convent educated girls, "something about a Monsieur Erik Mauger paying court to a Mademoiselle Rodier?"

"Ah," Erik replied. "Aurelie."

"A charming girl," Martine pressed.

Philippe nodded to that. Aurelie Rodier was one of those women with more character than beauty, with wit and vivacity in equal measure. Quick to laugh and quick to leave well enough alone. A very good sort of wife for a man like Erik, he supposed. He added his endorsement, if for no other reason than to redirect the talk of matrimony away from himself. "Quite the heiress." Not that Erik needed an heiress. His professional ventures were myriad, and they were all moderately successful.

"I admit, I am fond of her." Erik held up a hand to forestall Martine's brilliant smile. "There is but one problem."

Martine pouted. "A little thing, I am sure."

"Certainly not 'a little thing.' Aurelie thinks that she plays the harp."

"She does play the harp. Quite prettily."

"No," Erik replied, "you are clearly enthralled by the same delusion as the Rodier family."

"A little thing," Martine repeated.

Erik smiled became impossibly blander. "No. No, I think not."

II.

It had struck Philippe as a passing fancy to stop in on Erik some weeks later. Erik, for all the length of their acquaintance, tended to exist on the periphery of Philippe's social circle. He was respected and respectable, but he had never quite eradicated that air of _difference_ that clung to him. As far all Philippe knew, he had never even tried. Over the years, it had been a source of amusement to Philippe, of admiration, of awkwardness.

Philippe had been more boy than man when they first met, with the sang-froid of half a millennium of de Chagnys running through his veins and a criminal lack of ambition that warred with notions like 'duty' and 'family responsibility.'

Older Erik, on the other hand, liked to point out that his family owed their name to the bastard of a madman.

("They say that after he was deposed as archbishop, Mauger became a sorcerer on Jersey and eventually sold his soul to the devil." Erik would snap his fingers and produce a flame to light his cigarette before concluding, "Errant nonsense, of course.")

Philippe had later learned, as they had become something like friends, that the family's recent history was far less rarified. That seemed to be of little consequence to Erik. His father may have had a trade, but he was a master at it, and Erik himself had an inclination towards genius that allowed him to win a place at France's most prestigious school. He kept it by the sheer force of his potential.

_Potential_ was all that it really was—Erik was the King of Dabblers. He picked up skills like other men picked up ephemera. They were of no more import to him than a used train ticket or scraps of directions or poetry stuffed in his pocket. Talent was a mere side effect of living. He knew a little about a lot, and knew a lot about finding talented colleagues.

He had ended turning his inclination into his business model. His myriads of moderate business interests had made Erik monstrously wealthy.

Philippe was glad. If Erik's success did not quite qualify him to live in Philippe's circle, it certainly allowed him to visit it. And visit Erik did. He flirted with the women, did business with the men, led caroling at Christmas parties, and yet— yet, there was still something about him that made Philomene label him as 'one of Philippe's off-color people.'

Well, it did not bother Philippe. He could use a bit of Erik's odd off-color today, after weeks of impeccably on-color house guests. He called at Erik's townhouse, half-expecting him to be out and about in service of that hydra-headed company simply called _Mauger. _

But apparently, monstrous wealth allowed one the time to spend an afternoon tinkering with a piano. Philippe found the exposed strings and peculiar implements (a tuning fork, was it?) almost uncomfortable—like finding that the staff had not yet made up one's bed. Unmade beds and exposed piano strings belong backstage at the opera, not in a gentleman's parlor.

Erik seemed not to mind. "Are you escaping the erstwhile Mesdemoiselles de Chagny?" Erik asked.

"After a fashion. They departed this morning." He did not add _'thank God.'_ It would have been ungentlemanly.

"'Thank God,' yes?" Erik chuckled. He fiddled with the strings a bit and tried a key.

Philippe quirked a smile. "Perhaps. I came here with an invitation—if you are not too busy?"

Erik shrugged. "What did you have in mind?"

"Messieurs Debienne and Poligny have invited—quite informally, I assure you—a few of the subscribers to come and review the new troops."

The incredulous eyebrow reasserted itself. "Review the troops or shop the meat market?"

Philippe shrugged. "You have an interest in the finer workings of stagecraft. Do you want to go or not?"

Erik arose and straightened his coat. "Why not? I never can resist the opera."

"Well, let's see how you fare against the opera girls," Philippe said.

As it turned out, Erik fared quite well. They were both rather aloof men, Philippe supposed. But while he was perfectly comfortable, in a setting such as this, loosening his lacings and flirting with the pretty denizens of the demimonde, Erik remained politely distant. While Philippe caught Sorelli about the waist and made small talk with everyone from the staff to fellow subscribers, Erik actually watched the new cast members as the directors made their selections.

He paid particular attention to the new singers that had graduated from the Conservatory. His expression was nearly clinical, as if this was one of his enterprises.

"Do try to enjoy yourself," Philippe whispered to him, before following Sorelli back to the dancer's foyer.

Sometime later, he reemerged and found himself a bit hopeful for Erik.

Erik had cornered one of the new chorus girls, a pale beauty. She looked like nothing so much as a doll. A pretty, porcelain doll with great blue-glass eyes, gold-silk hair, and an expression of innocence expertly painted on.

Philippe did not like dolls. It was no secret that he preferred _women_ to such creature, and found little allure in a girl of fifteen. (A woman of fifteen, for such a thing did exist, was an entirely different matter.) He had not thought Erik's taste ran in that direction, either, but at times a man was simply caught by fancy.

"Ah, Philippe. This is Mademoiselle Daaé. Christine—the Comte de Chagny."

Philippe smiled at her—a kindly smile, like that of an uncle. She blushed and curtsied in response.

"Did you hear Christine sing, de Chagny?"Erik asked. His eyes never left the girl's face.

Philippe thought for a moment before answering. "I did."

"No," Erik replied. "No, you did not. But I think we can change that. Can we not, Christine?"

Christine's large eyes swiveled upward. She blushed again, but also smiled.

Later on, as they partook of supper at the Jockey-Club's Grand Café, Philippe brought up the subject of Christine Daaé.

"I hesitate to ask, but really—what could such a girl _do_ for you?"

Erik paused with his wine glass held betwixt the table and his lips. "_Do_ for me?"

Philippe lifted his brows and let the statement stand for itself.

"Pfft. I do not think she can do _anything_ for me," Erik finally took a sip of his drink. "There is something in her voice. I believe she could be one of the greatest artists of our generation. Of any generation."

Philippe thought back to her brief solo backstage. It was a pretty voice, worth no great note. A talented amateur, or a mediocre professional. But this was Erik asserting that she was a talent—and Erik had an undeniable ear for talent. "You think?"

"I know. Something in her texture—something in her color—" Erik cut himself off suddenly. "Give me six months, and I'll give you a prima donna. Not quite sure _how,_ but I will."

"A prima donna, you say?" Philippe offered a toothy grin that did not reach into his cold eyes. "A prima donna who will fondly remember her old patron, yes?"

"_Noblesse chevaleresque_," Erik grumbled. "You can be so crass."

III.

Philippe had sat contentedly enough through most of the Gala's performances. The music was a triumph with composer after composer conducting their own works in their own style and the performers masterful in their roles. But the real joy was watching it all play out of Raoul's face. His little brother—a baby, still, with his apple cheeks and the blond wisp that served him as a mustache—had just returned to Paris. It was if his months at sea had washed away what years he had spent gaining social polish in the great old metropolis. All that remained was the delicate manners of a boy raised in open country air and an almost girlish enjoyment of these new-old pleasures of life on land in that land of lands: Paris.

It pleased Philippe, even if he would have preferred a little more firmness in the boy's manner.

He turned his attention back to the stage when the drum rolls heralded the start of the last scene of Gounod's _Faust._ He squinted down at the figure on stage—Marguerite, prostrate on stage, with her white shift and golden hair pooling all about her. A familiar figure, that Marguerite, but certainly not that of _La Carlotta._ Faust sang his lament—called his lover's name—and there—yes, Philippe certainly knew that little doll that was rousing on stage. Erik's little diva, his Christine Daaé. Had he not said that in six months' time, he would present the world with a prima donna?

Philippe held his breath. And she sang.

_Yes—it is you—I love you._

The lyrics resonated in his soul like they had never done before, and Philippe was dimly aware that he was not alone. The entire audience was spellbound, stupefied.

Marguerite rhapsodized madly—but Christine Daaé sang brilliantly. She forced into life a sympathy for the poor ruined woman that Philippe had not even thought possible. Then, when it seemed that the impossible had been achieved, Mephistopheles' warning gave way to the trio.

And she sang.

She transcended the others—she transcended the role—perhaps even herself.

_Radiant angels—carry my soul to heaven._

How could they? How could they? Philippe thought wildly. How could they possibly do such a thing, when the angels were surely weeping?

The audience, without thought, came to their feet even as Mephistopheles cried out _Judged!_ The applause was ecstatic and existed like a living thing, drowning out the chorus of angels. Philippe, never a sensitive man, pulled himself out the haze quickly enough and resumed his seat with dignity.

Raoul did not. Raoul could not, it seemed. Philippe simply smiled at him.

The evening came to a close, but the applause for Christine Daaé continued. Philippe participated wholeheartedly, not only for the singer, but for Erik. Surely her success was owed, at least in part, to him.

"Look!" Raoul said. "Doesn't she look like she's about to faint?"

Philippe glanced at his brother. "You look about to faint yourself."

"Let's go and see her," Raoul said after a moment. He stood and motioned for Philippe to do the same.

Philippe laughed. "Oh? Are you asking me to take you back stage, young man?"

"Yes!" Raoul said, impatiently leading the way. "She's never sung like that before."

"Well, let's go have a little talk with _La Daaé_, then," Philippe agreed. "I know her patron—so do you."

Raoul made a noncommittal sort of sound.

"It's Monsieur Mauger," Philippe added. "You remember him, don't you? He's been to the estate a few times."

"Yes, yes," Raoul was continuing his single-minded trek towards the dressing rooms. Philippe was impressed. "Monsieur Mauger. He always had a strange smile. Like a grinning skull."

Philippe was saved from reply by their arrival at Christine's dressing room.

The little diva was prone on a settee. The doctor attended her, the managers hovered nearby, the maids and a few of the ballet girl stood at attention near the walls, and the subscribers took up what little floor space remained. In the midst of it all stood Erik, tall and gloomy in his superfine, overseeing his protégée's care.

"De Chagny," he greeted when the crowd cleared a little for Philippe, "I think the excitement was a bit too much for Christine."

Raoul stood rigidly by Philippe's side at the door jamb. "One can hardly breathe in there. Oughtn't the room be cleared?"

Erik glanced up. "Ah, your sailor has returned to land, de Chagny. He's correct, though. Is he not, Doctor?"

The doctor agreed and waved everyone away. Erik did not leave—nor did Raoul move from his place at the door. Philippe stayed at his side, a little awkwardly. He had seen Sorelli and her little troop pass by just a moment ago and would have liked to follow her. But Raoul? Raoul seemed rooted to the floor.

Christine heaved a sigh and lifted her trembling hand to her brow. Erik caught it and smiled down at her benevolently.

"Are you tired, child?" he asked.

"I sang out my soul for you—and am now dead!"

Erik chuckled. "Your soul is a beautiful gift, my dear, and I thank you for it." He leaned down and whispered something in her ear. Philippe could not hear what it was, but it made the girl's smile become a little less timorous.

Philippe believed it was well past the time to depart. He turned slightly and tried to guide Raoul away with a touch at his wrist.

The motion must have caught Christine's eye, for she turned to the doorway and started at the sight of them. "Monsieur le Comte—and Monsieur? Who are you?"

Raoul walked into the room with an air Philippe might have been proud of under different circumstances. It was the Chagny way to take what one wanted—but not in full view of one's friends. His younger brother seemed most oblivious to this one fine point of gallantry. He dropped to a knee next to Christine's divan. "Mademoiselle—I am the boy who saved your scarf from the sea."

Philippe's attention shifted to Erik for the briefest of moments. The light of a candelabrum diffused behind him, rendering his face a bizarre tangle of shadows and making his hazel eyes flash golden. Philippe had the sudden vision—of Raoul swinging from a noose, with Erik standing by as the hangman.

He shook his head, and wondered if perhaps they had all had a bit too much champagne.

FIN.


End file.
